


The Lotus Flower

by Bloodlamb



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Caring Hannibal Lecter, M/M, Shipping, Someone Help Will Graham, The faintest hint of gay thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28654497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodlamb/pseuds/Bloodlamb
Summary: Another meeting with Hannibal that wasn't ultimately necessary. Things were going well, there wasn't a new case falling into his lap just yet. But Will still finds himself making their weekly appointment, as he always does. And as always, idle banter shifts to vulnerability, Hannibal always seemed to be present when he was feeling vulnerable.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	The Lotus Flower

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is the first time I've written fanfiction in years. I haven't written outside of role plays since I was probably 14. As an adult now, and feeling inspired by a few discord friendly acquaintances whose writing I greatly admire and look up to, I wanted to try my hand at it again. I know this is short, and it may not be the best, but I hope someone enjoys it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I'm open to constructive criticism. Please just be kind, I haven't written anything on my own in a long time so I'm a little nervous posting this. Any who, have some Will and Hannibal talking to each other, nothing too fancy. This was actually supposed to be for a flashfic prompt but I accidentally revealed what my content was, and it's supposed to be a surprise, but I wanted to finish it anyway. Enjoy! :)

"You’ve never shown me your art before.”

Will stands on the far side of the room from Hannibal’s desk, overlooking the view of an unremarkable Thursday afternoon in Baltimore. He doesn’t bother turning his attention to Hannibal just yet. He knows he will get a response when the psychiatrist is interested in responding.

The elder man is perched at the center of his seat, his forearms resting on the edge of the desktop. A neutral-colored bulb of a long-necked silver lamp combats the low angle of natural light that is cast across the office from two towering windows. The psychiatrist’s eyes do not leave the paper yet, his right hand sending the rhythmic sound of graphite scratching gently through the air. When he finds a stopping point that he is satisfied with, he lets his eyes drift to the profiler across the room.

“You never indicated an interest.”

Will’s brows lift, and his eyes roll sarcastically at the deflection. “You never  _ indicated  _ to me that you wanted to talk about it in the first place. It would be impolite of me to pry, wouldn’t it? You’re the one who gets paid to do that.” Hannibal smirks, and his eyes return to the paper, his pencil moving once again. 

“I’m not your psychiatrist. I thought we had been over this, Will. Do you intend to start paying for my time? I do lavish you with so much of it.” Although an irritated muttering can be heard from the opposite corner of the room, Hannibal continues to smile. Will tries to find clever words to respond with. He finds nothing. He responds by crossing the room. A small sidestep of the settee allows him to walk a straight line to the free-standing lamp that hangs over the drawing table. He circles it slowly, allowing Hannibal time to decide if he wants to allow the profiler to see his work. He simply continues to draw.

What the scruffy instructor sees is a drawing of a woman in a window, the wall has a fancy border just below the beginning of a rooftop. He knows he is  _ supposed _ to pay some vague and pleasant compliment now. His eyes wander all along the sketch. “I like that flowery frame stuff at the top.” It sounds just as stupid out loud as it did in his head.

Hannibal pauses, his pencil moving to hover over the framework, as if to confirm that was what he meant. “Anthemion. Developed by ancient Greeks to mimic the Egyptian lotus palmette. It is commonly used either as a running ornament like this near the ceiling of a building, or one shape to a block to hide tile ends on the edges of roofs.” It never ceases to amaze Will how awkward remarks could be transformed into pageantry. It is infuriating to him. He attempts to stump Hannibal’s clever remarks, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. 

“I heard that many parts of a lotus flower are edible! Did you know that?” He is almost certain Hannibal knows this. When the psychiatrist sets down his pencil to turn and look up at Will, offering a most withering stare, he can’t help but feel a bubbling of pride. He had sounded sufficiently ridiculous, enough to garner a reaction.

“…The edible nature of the lotus flower has been documented as far back as Ancient Greece. In Homer’s Odyssey, Ulysses visits ‘the land of lotus eaters.’ Its seeds and tubers are edible, and lotus flower tea can also be made.” There is a smugness that permeates through the air as Will throws up his hands in defeat. “You always have something smart to say! It’s hard not to feel inferior around you.” 

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows he has opened his own metaphorical Pandora’s Box. Hannibal turns to Will, folding his hands in his lap after crossing his legs. “You concern yourself with whether or not others perceive you as confident, how they perceive you at all, quite often. It is precisely why you try to keep your distance. You believe that if you can stay far enough away, you will not feel the weight of their judgments pertaining to your character.” 

Will knows that he has already walked through the door at this point, and he has no choice but to have this conversation. “It’s funny how the moment you say that I instantly regret crossing this entire room just to have my skull cracked open like a dusty book you forgot you were reading.” He stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets defensively, letting his eyes wander. “My character. Character is how we define ourselves based on our surroundings. We are defined by our relationships and roles.  _ My name is Will Graham, I am a professor for the Quantico FBI Academy. I work for Jack Crawford with the FBI. I’m friends with Beverly Katz and Doctor Hannibal Lecter. _ The way people perceive me plays a large part in my relationships, my role, in their lives.” He turns away from Hannibal, crossing the room to settle at his preferred windowsill once more. “The loophole is that if you listen to someone talk long enough, they’ll like you because you don’t interrupt them. You don’t have to say a word. They’ll tell everyone what a patient person you are, how you’re such a good listener! No scrutiny then. Scrutiny is where relationships get complicated. ...Ironically, you spend most of your time listening to me talk.”

Hannibal offers a small smile. “Do you think that is the only reason I am your friend?” 

This question is not met with an immediate answer. Will’s eyes flick back and forth as he ponders this. “I don’t think you’re my friend because you listen to me. My students listen to me, they’re not my friends. I feel like you understand me. Normally when people understand me, they withdraw. You don’t.”  _ You don’t think I’m a freak.  _

“Why would you trust their judgement over your own? Most people in this world believe they understand everything they need to about gravity. They live in it all the time, accustomed to its presence, bearing its punishments. They are content with this. Yet, if they were presented with the true mechanisms, descriptions, and mathematical calculations of gravity, they would shrink from it. Dislike it. Why?” Hannibal waits for Will to answer his question. He had this way of posing questions, obligating others to insert the answer that suited their reality at the time, prying open their thought process before him. It felt like prying because Will had finally learned how to notice it was happening. He finds himself compelled to answer him anyway. “They feel overwhelmed by how incomprehensible it all is. Too many big words, no pictures.”

The psychiatrist leans back in his chair, scanning Will with thinned eyes, waiting to see if he would continue. He is met with anxious shifting. “Let us say that human beings are fish in a river, Will,” The profiler rolls his eyes, of course he would use a fish analogy. “Fish in a river, with patches of lily pads and lotus flowers along their journey. You have spent most of your time watching other fish. You learned all the migration patterns, where to build the perfect nest, and how to avoid the predators. You’ve spent so long trying to be a fish, so long in fact, that you have forgotten you were never an animal in the first place.” This appraisal leaves the profiler confused. Was Hannibal calling him an alien? He felt like an alien. Quiet settles over the room.

They had both grown comfortable being in silence together. For a moment, Will allows himself to enjoy the weight of Hannibal’s existence. The way it colored and flavored the room was unique to his behavior. Just as with every other person, except, his friend was nothing like everyone else. He tried to act like he was. Why? It had to benefit him in some way. This curiosity flutters from him as quickly as it landed. When he looks at Hannibal again, he finds that the man’s eyes had never left him in the first place. Dark pools glinting with something akin to curiosity, yet almost more ...affectionate. 

A strange sensation overcomes him, as if Hannibal were not simply seated in his chair. He was everywhere. Even when he looks away, he can feel it. Every step, every book he had ever removed or replaced, every moment in this room was suddenly happening at once. His presence was everywhere here. All consuming.

The elder man turns back to his artwork, using his pencil to point to the floral framework once more. “Lotus palmette. A design that surfaced in Egypt, made to resemble the lotus flower. Lotus flowers have long been considered to have spiritual properties. Often associated with purity and enlightenment, it is especially sacred in Buddhism.” 

As Hannibal begins what will no doubt be a long-winded monologue, Will wanders to his usual chair and eases himself back into it before tuning back in. “-the pink lotus flower especially is associated with the highest realms, Buddha, and many kings considered worthy of its visage. The seed is planted in the mud of the pond or river, while its leaves grow and float atop the water. When the stem finally grows tall enough to produce a bloom, it births a nearly sentient creature. Lotus plants regulate the temperature of their flowers to attract pollinators. They can live over one thousand years, reawakening from dormancy.”

Just moments ago, they were friends. Simple friends in a simple conversation. Now, Will could feel his neck growing hot with color as Hannibal’s eyes pierce through his scalp. “Such a delicate beauty bred from resilience. Fish are such finite creatures. Why should a lotus demand itself to be reduced to the stature of a fish?” 

“Who would want to be a flower trapped in the mud?” Will retorts. “Who wouldn’t want to swim out to the ocean, be part of a community, have a purpose? Life is meaningful because it is finite. Who would want to be trapped on a lily pad for a thousand years?” Already the words feel meaningless as they fall from his lips. He was well acquainted with these words, words other people believed, words they wanted him to say. “...Truth is just the words we tell ourselves over and over till we believe them.” His voice is reduced to a raspy whisper. Confusion comes over him in waves. 

Hannibal lets the silence linger as Will struggles with his inner turmoil. He had grown accustomed to these interactions, like another suit in his collection. At first he had assumed the rush he enjoyed was a feeling of power. Being able to bear witness to the genius Will Graham’s insecurity, it seemed reasonable. Feeling powerful was commonplace to him. But as their relationship blossomed, its sacred nature was so clear. It was his privilege to be the hollow cavern Will wanted to huddle in. He could feel the man’s fingers beginning to grow curious about the surroundings, feeling along the walls, wanting to know him more. Willing to move deeper into the inky black of his night. What Will did not realize was that they were both lonely flowers in a river of mindless fish.

" _As a lotus flower is born in water, grows in water and rises out of water to stand above it unsoiled, so I, born in the world, raised in the world, having overcome the world, live unsoiled by the world,”_ Hannibal lets the quote linger, enjoying his own associations as he allows Will to make his own. “If you do not learn to bloom from the stormy waves, you will drown. This world is but another womb you were planted in. You must be born anew.”

There is something soothing about the silence that grows between them. Hannibal watches Will with neither sympathy nor pity. This was something he appreciated about Hannibal. The psychiatrist was content to see what Will would do with the tools provided to him, neither urging nor shaming a certain response, no matter what he wanted Will to do selfishly. “I don’t want to be lonely. I may keep people at a distance, but I at least want to have people.” The statement is solemn, and Will decides this is the end of their talk by standing from his seat. “You’ve stopped asking me to come to dinner.”

Hannibal remains seated. His chin tilts up to try and urge Will’s eyes to meet his own. Endless pools of darkness nudge at his shyness like a wolf to a duckling. “You never indicated an interest in attending.” 

“But I never said no.”

Will had finally found something to say that stumped him. The psychiatrist seems to consider this, his lips pulling into a thoughtful frown. The profiler straightens his ragged flannel, smoothing it down between his worrying fingers, pacing towards the door. He refrains from opening the door when Hannibal breaks the silence once more. “Do you happen to know of a good place to acquire salmon? I have happened upon a whiskey with a good bit of rye in it, smoked salmon is quite the pair for it. I would normally pair it with white pinot noir, but I’ve just run out.” Will catches Hannibal’s head turn, as if he is just about to glance over his shoulder. 

“Why, Doctor. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re  _ flirting _ with me. How about I bring some at our usual time next week?” He can see Hannibal turning fully in his chair at this bold remark, so he takes his chance, stepping through and closing the door behind himself with a quiet click.

~

Monday brought a stormy morning filled with more atrocities that could only be committed by humankind. Gloomy clouds huddle in the skies, neither angry nor pleasant, and rain quietly drums the paved walkways of the Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden. 8:39 AM, the 14th of June, Monday. Soft pink petals paint the top of the pond. The water houses thick clusters of lotus leaves, as well as the gray and blue color of death and rot. Hands emerge from the foliage, fingers grasping and clawing helplessly at the air, scalps hovering above the surface just barely. He knows he is supposed to be building a profile, but all he can imagine are those paintings by Monet. Beautiful moments of time frozen in pigment. This felt like a snapshot from someone’s reality, beautiful and frightening.

“The crew is saying there are bricks tied to their ankles. They think our perp pushed them off of that bridge,” Jack is standing beside him, now pointing to the nearby bridge that overlooks the large lilypond. It was a cute little walkway, arching over the water, perfect for a picture or a kiss. “The water’s not as deep on this side, and he didn’t choose cinder blocks. He wanted them to be found. The question is, how did he get them in? This is a remote part of the garden, but it’s not a simple process to sneak two full grown women in, shove them into a shallow part of a pond, and get out without being seen.” 

His persistent information dumping drags the psychoanalyst back to the present moment. The case is before him, and he needs to assess it. The chatter begins to melt away as Will closes his eyes, letting his breathing become rhythmic, like the swing of a pendulum. The hands were posed purposefully. Grasping for help, for salvation. When he opens his eyes, he exhales shakily. “The perpetrator.... Wanted to watch them struggle. It was a test. If they could struggle out of the water with the burdens they were forced to carry, they might have gotten to live. They resent these women. Want to make them feel the way that they’ve felt. This perpetrator feels rejected by everyone in their life to some degree, while these women are ideals they were compared to. They feel that these women were privileged with opportunities that they never had access to. Look at them now. Not so successful, are they?” 

He steps away from Jack, kneeling in the wet grass beside the edge of the pond. While bodies are dislodged and hoisted from the mud, he finds his eyes drawn to a cluster of lily pads. There were a variety of blooms, different in size and age, small little buds and spread open petals mixing in the water. Cold droplets accent the petals of a particularly bright lotus, and he wonders if it can stay warm in the brisk air. He can almost feel Hannibal standing behind him, hear his voice.  _ If you cannot break the water’s surface, you will drown.  _ He swallows down whatever feeling was growing inside him. 

“The fact that there’s so little battering means that to some degree, the perpetrator is scared, or maybe sorrowful. They know these girls personally. They feel some level of guilt hurting them more than they have to. Maybe it is a woman. She feels ashamed and sorry for what she is doing. As much as she resents them, she likes them. Sees them as friends, beautiful and successful. Everything she wants to be. But no one is listening, they listened to these girls, but not her. Right now, she is desperately trying to keep her head above water. Everyone in her life is missing the signs that she is suffering. Fish in a pond, eating and pooping and making eggs. They don’t see her. Her hands are barely breaking the surface, and she just wants to be a pretty flower like these girls got to be. Like they never will be again.”

The older FBI agent squints at Will as rain drips off the rim of his hat. “How do we stop her, then?” The only question he ever asks. The profiler rubs his face, letting out a great sigh. “We have to make her believe she’s a flower, not a fish.”


End file.
